Sunday Morning

By Kirstin Kennedy

I have an idealized view of what a Sunday morning should look like. Every week I dream of waking with the sun on this new day and looking at my life completely objectively. I’d made a big pot of coffee that would fill the house with a smell of aliveness and I’d enjoy the Joe for its real pleasure, rather than its wakening effects. If it were summer, I’d take a long run, focusing on my breath, rather than my time while enjoying the nature of the park and the glistening of the shallow lake which it surrounds. If it were winter, I’d briskly walk in the woods, enjoying the beautiful contrast of the white snow on the dark brown bark. Maybe I’d even watch for the Cardinal, picking away at the small surviving berries.

I imagine the hot shower on my skin, steam lifting my muscles. And all the suds that wash the week’s shame away would smell of freshness and joy. I would take my time with the heat and unknown pleasure of water. I would then sit down with my coffee and rejuvenated body to write. Cranking our profoundness, my new state of mind would wow the page. I would be a tiger in the Sunday morning sun. Afterward, I would turn to Meet the Press with the Sunday paper and enjoy enlightening myself, not to mention the deep voice of the man who narrates PBS promotional. I would make the early Mass.

Turning to the kitchen, I would make a huge breakfast of egg – white omelets, turkey bacon and stacks of whole – wheat toast. I would probably have some smooth music playing in the background as I cooked, just as my grandfather does every Sunday morning. Perhaps that is the trick to making breakfasts like he does. Of course, everyone would adore my creation. My disposition to those who awakened to my feast would be nothing but pleasant and interested as we discussed their impressions to the morning’s paper. The whole house would smell fresh and lived in and by the hour of noon, I would already possess a sense of deep accomplishment.

My real Sundays only consist of a bottle of Advil and my face on the toilet seat. Typically the background sounds consist of my verbal pain, "Ohhhhh mmmm uhhgggg I'm never drinking again." There are no healthy breakfast foods in sight as I gorge myself with three Double Stacks from Wendy's and a large Dr. Pepper. Actually, that’s really how I should describe my Sunday afternoons. I do not know Sunday mornings. I only crave to. But today is different. Not in my dream way, but maybe I am a step closer. I am not about to create a fabulous breakfast or take a nature walk. I am going to drink coffee, but for the sole reason of waking up. At this point, I find it fits to spend my time this way. But now, I am going to crawl back in to bed, back to the warmth to keep dreaming of what a future Sunday morning will look like.

The Vital Rules; Avoiding the Beast that is Rachael Ray

By Kirstin Kennedy

It was a definably hot August, mid-week, afternoon that we spent half asleep on the couch, moaning about the thirty minute work – out we had completed hours ago. There were open boxes of cereal and plates with pizza residue scattered across the floor, not to mention various DVD’s that we had watched at least fifteen times each. My skin melted to the dense fabric of the couch and my head pounded with heat and my assumed laziness. I look at Kennan; both eyes closed with the remote extending out of her hand, her mouth cracked just enough to let a fly in.

“What were we watching anyhow?” Again, I looked across the room. My dear friend and I are as characteristic as Holms and Watson, but without the exotic adventures, notable wit, and ability to solve anything beyond the decision of what to feast on. My eyes blurred to focus on the television as I fought the urge to continue on preemptive snooze. I made out that it was a show from the Food Network, some woman spoke with the most heinous voice I had ever heard. “What is this?” I questioned to unconscious ears. I would have rather heard Fran Drencher perform an opera than continue exposure to this cacophonous cook.

As I regained ability to perceive the situation, I focused on the sickening sound which had disrupted my mind. As my full vision returned from my afternoon hibernation, I saw a fearful sight before me. There she stood in her bright orange and blue kitchen with her freshman fifteen muffin top perturbing out of her too – tight jeans and her Jersey Shore faux tan. “We are gonna make Sammies!” exclaimed the loathsome creature on the tube as she pulled out an unnatural amount of unhealthy food from her baby – blue, 1960’s style refrigerator. Sammies? What the fuck are Sammies?

Kennan awakened, equally repulsed. Who did this psycho think she was, shortening the sacred title of a decent sandwich? And, really, why did she think it was so cool to use the acronym EVOO. Yes, Extra Virgin Olive Oil is, in fact, a mouthful, but there is nothing extraordinary about saying EVOO and I immediately resented her for it. Not to mention the ear – piercing sound of her voice, which in combination with food made me look down at our dirty plates with a churn in my stomach. Kennan and I there began a deep and fiery haltered for the one they call, Rachael Ray.

Never Google this celebrity cook, she has posted provocative pictures involving her in small amounts of clothing while consuming desserts. You won’t eat for a week. Never attempt to make her foods, not only are they odd concoctions that surly are appalling, they are terribly unhealthy and may cause you to only fit into black pantsuits, such as the creator wears on her talk show. Also, never attend her show life, as there is a strict business casual dress code that all attendees must follow or they are kicked out. Besides, you don’t want to provide profit for her self – made, indulgent industry. Most importantly, you must absolutely never result to using the lingo of this cooking tyrant. You are a far more creative and intellectual creature than such.

Time for Some Plumbing

By Kirstin Kennedy

“HEY! Leave him alone!” shouted my fifteen year-old, ever-righteous cousin, Kevin. Looking back on the event, his only intention was to defend the aged crossing guard from the cruel, beer-bellied man in a plumber’s truck. Apparently, the crass plumber portrayed a rude disposition to the official, merely asking him to proceed into the traffic.

“Shut the fuck up, kid!” rendered the plumber, now infamous in the Kennedy family. And there, before the eyes of fifteen high school students stranded at the corner of Washington and Cochran Road, flew the plumbing truck on to the curb of the sidewalk. The harassed crossing guard begged Kevin to head home, but he refused. He approached the wide mobile in an attempt to instruct the ignoramus of his sins towards the white-haired, volunteer crossing guard.

“I can’t hear you! I can’t hear you!” Kevin chanted to the plumber as he as he shouted obscenities from inside of the vehicle. Kev has never really fit into his own age group, but when he and his friends face the brunt of ridicule, he becomes a knight on a shining white steed. Not realizing that the passenger window was closed, Kevin watched then man violently shout, completely inaudibly.

Giving the plumber a double middle finger dance and even flipping his backpack up to wave his fanny in the man’s face, Kevin did everything in his awkward power to give the plumber a piece of his mind. I picture my cousin standing there, blown hair frizzed upward and all around, not unlike the character Kramer from Seinfeld. Undoubtedly wearing a plaid, button down, short-sleeved shirt, Kevin probably allowed his baggy pants and loose jacket to flail in the wind throughout the episode. His un-brushed teeth were likely to be grinning into the closed window.

“I’ll kill you, kid!” the man in the truck threatened, finally rolling down the window.

“I’d like to see you try, fat – ass!” Kevin responded, beginning to shift from his righteous act into an out of hand spectacle. The plumber, taking this statement as a challenge, hopped out of his truck and rapidly approached Kevin. At this point, I picture Kevin having a cartoon-like reaction as he gasped and took off like a bat out of hell in the direction of his house, the plumber trailing closely behind.

Sprinting down Route 19, I see every layer of Kevin’s clothing flapping in the wind as he looked over his shoulder to gage this distance between his foe. For a five foot six freshman whose sole interest consists of recreating Japanese Anima cartoons, he must have run like hell.

As he reached another corner with another crossing guard, he announced in a frenzy of breath, “If you see a fat plumber come down this way, stop him!”

This proclamation was met only with a “Huh?” from the equally elderly guard, so Kevin continued his vigorous mile home.